Flip Side of the Coin
by P'Bantonox
Summary: It begins with an errant wish gone awry. House and Wilson find they've swapped personalities, and suddenly even the simplest situations are shrouded in doubt...


_**Disclaimer: House isn't mine. Simply put, I'm only borrowing the characters. But you don't want a rationalization. You want a story.**_

_**I'll try and oblige.**_

_**~~Thank you **HouseRox** for the inspiration~~**_

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House stared at the coin, sliding it across the desk with a fingertip, flicking it back the other way. He thought he'd lost it. No, scratch that. He thought he'd thrown it away.

It was supposedly made of gold, but he'd tested that when he first got it. A water displacement test pretty much assured him that that pretty sheen was just a plating. Shame. He might have gotten something for it.

_If it hadn't been sentimental junk._

He shook his head slightly and scowled. It was something Kutner had given him. Superstitious Kutner. Of course the man would have believed in lucky coins. He'd tossed it to House when he needed a coin to flip, and told him to keep it.

He'd tried to 'lose it' three times. Twice before his death. Once after.

_Like a bad penny…_

This time he was fingering the inscription on the back. Something in Hindi. In a minute he'd flip it. In a minute he'd let it make a decision for him. Two possible answers. Both possibly lethal. No other choices. Nothing else to base his decision on. He'd regret this moment for a long time, no matter the results.

He balanced it on his fingernail and coiled his thumb. He closed his eyes, wishing the answer would be the correct one.

With a ping, he let it fly.

A quiet rustle told him it had landed in the potted plant by the window. He kicked the side of his desk and rode the chair to the crash site.

_Heads._

Without pausing, he pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and scrawled his decision on it. Now only time would tell whether it was the right one.

House stood, grabbing his cane and pushing through into the other room. He left the slip of paper on the table.

They'd see it. They'd know.

o-_-_[H]_-_-o

Clinic duty. The other joy of the day. Lying on an exam couch, passing the hours away with the occasional patient to disturb his reverie.

Oh hell. Who was he kidding?

House waved the tongue depressor like a baton. "Just sit down. You've got a sore throat, but I'm sure your deep-rooted desire to escape school is much more infectious. Still, don't cough on me. I'm having enough trouble staying here as it is."

The awkward silence wore at his patience. None-too-smart, this one. Pulling on a pair of rubber gloves, he pulled at the corner of the boy's mouth. "Say Ah."

"Eehhhh."

"It's swine flu."

A long pause. "What do I do?"

Hous pulled out his penlight and flashed it over the kid's eyes. "Take some cough drops and cold meds."

"For the flu?"

"It's not the flu, idiot. It's a cold. Hence the cold medicine. You've got your excuse off school, now go be sick at home."

He waited until the room was empty again and pulled a magazine out from under the chair. He'd lost his page. Damn. Now where was he? Somewhere after Angelina Jolie's surrogate brother, no doubt. Or Bat-Boy's new acting job.

The door clicked open and he peeked an eyebrow over the top of the page. Too late to feign sleep now…

"Busy, House?"

He scrunched up his face in mock horror. "You can't come in here! My patient's naked!" He caught Wilson's disapproving look and shrugged. "The Emperor's New Model. Page eighteen." Best to deflect.

"You know why I'm here. You're doing the wrong thing."

He closed his eyes. "It makes sense. Emphesematous gastritis explains the symptoms. Broad-spectrum antibiotics and revasculary surgery is the only option."

"And if it isn't? She could die!"

He flipped the pages shut and tossed the magazine to the floor. "Whatever we do, she'll probably be dead tomorrow. There's nothing else to do. I had Foreman call her family."

He could see an edge of anger and desperation flash across Wilson's face. He'd liked her. "What if it's –"

"It's not. I know it's not." He did. He could _feel_ it. And he recognized some small part of himself that felt angry at Wilson for wanting him to be wrong. "Go hold her hand or something. Maybe she'll hear you caring and pull through."

"This isn't about me."

The smile never passed his lips. "You just proved yourself wrong."

The man in the doorway swayed on his feet and took a long gulp of air.

"How long did you know her?" House met his eyes, watched him close the door behind him.

"How did…" Wilson shook his head. "Never mind."

"You knew she was allergic to cilantro," he added helpfully. "That you volunteered to help search her house. How many hours you spent disproving adenocarcinoma." He shifted his weight, reaching into his pocket for his Vicodin. Something tapped against the side of the bottle and he felt cold metal against the back of his hand. The bitter taste of the pill was almost as comforting as the round shape of the coin in his palm. He didn't want to argue right now. And there was no way in hell he'd play comfort to Wilson. He just wanted to be alone.

"Three months," Wilson'd said. He hardly heard it. He was staring through the blinds at a man in the clinic, his whole attention fixed on the lopsided scowl that waited for attention. The half-squint was all the sign he needed.

"You'd think a man wouldn't wait to get to a hospital to have a stroke," he growled, limping out into the crowded space.

By the time the door slammed behind him, the conversation was far from his mind.

o-_-_[H]_-_-o

He startled from his sleep, eyes open and sitting bolt-upright before he realized why. His phone was singing, vibrating a slow path across the table to where it might eventually leap off the edge. He glanced at the clock and rolled over again. Three o' clock was too late for a social call.

ABBA told him there wasn't much else it could be.

The ringing stopped. It'd gone to message.

He only had three seconds of peace before _Dancing Queen_ cut through the darkness again. Fumbling for the light, he flipped it open and demonstrated an unappreciative growl.

"She's in cardiac arrest…" He could barely hear Wilson's voice over the background voice. "Chase… he can't…" _He can't get her heart started._

"There's nothing I can do," he muttered. "Goodnight, Wilson." He flipped the phone shut and reached for the light. He'd get hell tomorrow. Wilson would be a wreck. Taub would tell House to break the news to the parents. It wouldn't take more than five minutes of silence to get the man to cave.

One day of respite where people were the only thing he needed to worry about. There might be a case waiting on his desk when he came in. There might not.

The heaviness in Wilson's voice still echoed in his ears. The man was hurt and he'd need time to heal.

House wondered if it was worth taking the day off tomorrow.

The phone blared its pseudo-cheerfulness, threatening him with a headache if he didn't pick up.

He buried his head under the pillow and pretended he couldn't hear it. It still filtered through. He wasn't going to pick up. He hadn't slept well over the last few days. The last thing he needed was Wilson crying on his metaphorical shoulder. It would be a pathetically honest gesture, attachment and sorrow and pain, searching for someone to pretend to listen while he ritually cleansed his emotions.

There was a time for mourning. If social code required a friend to listen, it should also request a more reasonable time to do so.

The phone went to voicemail for the fifth time and started up again. He considered taking the batteries out.

He flipped it open instead.

"…have the decency to _listen…_"

"Why do you think I picked up the phone?" He stared into the shadows, taking a deep breath. "You need to vent. Go on."

"She's my... It's like you don't expect me to care –"

"Of course I expect you to care. You're _you_–"

"_Ha."_

" …she was just a patent to me. You know that."

"Exactly. You don't bother worrying about what happens after they die. Somebody else always picks up the pieces, consoles the families. That person, House, is usually _me_. The least you can do is _pretend_ to care."

"I do." He muttered it quiet enough that he was sure Wilson hadn't heard it. "And I need my sleep."

"You –"

"Fifty-two hours on this case." He considered flipping the phone shut. "Don't ask me to do anything different just because it was your girlfriend. You're hurt. But you'll wake up tomorrow and the air you breathe won't be any different."

A long silence, broken only by the unsteady breathing on the other end. He knew Wilson was in shock. It'd take more than what he'd said to wake him up.

Before he could say anything else, a click told him the line was dead.

He tossed the phone across the room and into the laundry basket. The clothes would muffle any further calls.

There wouldn't be any more from Wilson.

He stared at the ceiling, sleep evading him this time.

_I wish you could see it my way… it's better this way._

_In the long run, it's better this way…._

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_**A/N: Like I said, a big thanks to **HouseRox.** I know it's not a bodyswap like you suggested, but, well, been there, done that. ^_^;**_

_**Next chapter is when it begins. Be ready.**_

_**(They won't.)  
**_

_**Cheers.**_

_**~P'Bantonox.  
**_


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